


By The Way

by dawnstruck



Category: Death Note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:25:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstruck/pseuds/dawnstruck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“By the way, Mello,” he thinks and presses his head against the cool wood of the door, “You left without saying goodbye to me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	By The Way

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Theory of a Deadman's "By the Way".

 

“ _By the way, you’ve been a great friend.”_

 

Matt stares at those words as if it were the first time he read them. It isn’t. But it might been the last.

 

Over the years there have been many times he’d been close to crunching the note in his fist. To burn it, drown it, tear it up, swallow it down. But he can’t. Not now and not ever.

 

The note is longer than that one sentence, of course, but it’s just that this one hurts the most. It shouldn’t. It was probably meant to be reassuring, but that kinda backfired. It has made Matt cry so many times, he stopped counting after a while. He stopped many things after a while. He stopped smiling and joking, he stopped running around in the hallways, he stopped skipping class. He stopped playing pranks or sneaking out at night. He stopped making plans beyond the next six hours. All those things were no fun when you were alone.

 

After a while the crying eventually stopped as well. Stopped long before the nightmares did. They still haunt him sometimes, but it’s gotten better, although anything is better than what he’s had during the past five years.

 

Five years. Fucking hell, it’s been so long, and he’s still sitting here, _again_ sitting here, and it’s really quite pathetic.

 

Even after all this time he clearly remembers that day; the memory is as sharp as a shard of broken glass and it certainly feels like it as well because he keeps turning it around in his mind, over and over and over again, always pressing _replay,_ always unable to resist the urge.

 

He’s touching it before his skin has had time to heal, and so he cuts it open again and he continues to bleed. The bleeding hasn’t stop. He doesn’t want it to. He needs it to remind him of the fact why he is still sitting there and not already on his way to Japan.

 

The text message was send two hours ago. He’s only read it once. On the one hand because he’s already got it memorized, on the other hand because he fears that it will become all the more real if he sucks those words in.

 

“ _Matt. Need help. Answer if you have found a safe way to contact me. It’s urgent. M.”_

 

Nothing more, nothing less. And still so fucking painful. Matt nearly threw up when he read it. He still wants to, actually, but he gets a grip of himself and takes a deep breath.

 

There’s barely any information in that message, but still the one thing Matt needed to know.

 

Mello is alive. Mello is alive and kicking and possibly well enough to still think of him.

 

That’s another thing that makes Matt want to vomit and cheer at the same time. Mello still thinks of him. Mello remembers him. He has not erased him from his memory. It feels so fucking good it gives him stomach cramps. He’s excited and exhilarated and so bloody scared.

 

But he’d be foolish to trust so easily, foolish to forget everything that has happened. Yes, up till now this is the best day of his life. But it’s also closely linked to the worst day of his life.

 

He glances down at the note again. It’s inconspicuous. Plain. And yet it destroyed him.

 

A small post-it note, the color already faded from a bright lime green to a dull mint green. The words were quickly scribbled, luckily not with ink which would have paled as well, but with a thin, black marker. It’s barely legible which somehow doesn’t fit. A life-changing message should not be written like this. It ought to be displayed on pristine white paper, or better yet, on old parchment, black-inked letters gracefully applied with a golden pen or a quill...

 

That’s fucking stupid, and Matt knows it.

 

A life-changing message should not be written down at all. It should be said out loud, directly to his face. But all he has it that fucking post-it note and again he resist the urge to just tear it apart.  
” _Roger says L and Whammy are dead. Near’s taking over. I’m leaving and I won’t come back. There’s nothing for me here anymore. By the way, you’ve been a great friend.”_

 

“Fuck you, Mello,” Matt whispers under his breath, “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!”

 

The last one is screamed out in rage and he slams his fist against the wall, relishing the pain because it’s makes him feel somewhat alive. The other kids in the orphanage are used to hearing screams and curses and the sound of things – wood, windows, hearts – breaking in this room, so no one will bother to look who’s causing the ruckus. They all know it’s him and why he does it.

 

Nearly five years ago he had found that note. With a snort he realizes that next week would be the anniversary. Perfect timing, Mello. Always so fucking perfect.

 

Back then, on that cursed day, he had been told worrisome things, things that scared the shit out of him. Roger had called Near and Mello to his office. Someone had heard Mello yelling. Someone had seen Mello leave.

 

Matt had dashed up the stairs, bursting into Mello’s room. But there was nothing. Only silence.

 

All the important stuff was gone. All the things Mello treasured the most. Money, chocolate, some books, a few pieces of clothing. As if he had packed for a short trip to London. Not for a journey to hell. It looked like he’d be back in a few days when in reality he planned to never return.

 

Matt had been much to shocked to really react in any way. Afterwards he had screamed a lot and cried and destroyed things, but that was the helpless aggression that only set in to replace the hollowness, the raw pain of the first few weeks.

 

Some part of him must’ve considered running after Mello, because what kind of reason did he have to leave, although a sickening thought had popped up in his head and slowly spread through the rest of his body. Anyway, Matt had turned around to leave the room again and just do something, _anything_ .

 

But there . A note by the door. Still lime green back then, still sticking to the dark, polished wood.

 

With shaking hands Matt had reached out to touch it for the first time, to pull it off and quietly read those words that crushed him.

 

 _Simply explains_ explaining everything and nothing at the same time. Empty, hollow words. Just like Matt had felt. And yet it’s all that remains.

 

It’s no wonder why he had not slept in days then. He can’t really recall the days that followed; it’s all a blurr and he believes that sometimes it’s better to not remember certain things.

 

There were long nights, though, nights in which he cried himself to sleep only to awake minutes later, even more exhausted and over-whelmed than before. It was the time the dreams started, the time he decided that conscience was better than sleep, because that way he could at least control his thoughts to a certain extent. He had been so fucking tired back then, drained of all his strength, his will-power. A nervous wreck, that’s what he had been, what he still was in a way.

 

And yet, he returned everyday to the place that caused him all this misery, that room that contained all of his balled up rage and helplessness, those walls that had heard him cry and seen him break down. He always returned, because on some days that pain was the only feeling that he remained. He was afraid of becoming numb and indifferent.

 

Tired eyes glance up from the note, eyes that used to shine but are now red-rimmed and blank. The room is blank as well. There were so many treasured memories of happier times spend in this room. Now all he remembers is the months after, the hours on end he sat there are simply stared at the walls.

 

The walls look just like before. Plain, white wallpaper without any pictures or posters to adorn them because Mello had never been intersted in such decorations. The room seems smaller, despite the fact that it is empty and this should have the opposite effect. Instead Matt feels caged, lonely and forgotten, as if someone had locked him up in here and simply walked away with the key – which kind of is what happened.

 

There’s dust on the floor, piled up from the years, just like Matt’s emotions have piled up, because this room is the vessel he keeps puking bits of his heart into and every time he closes the door behind himself to return to his own room there a small part of him missing, another piece of soul that he leaves to rot in here.

 

The dust has settled over the other surfaces, too, over the empty shelves and the desk and the marble windowsill; the curtains are the only remaining piece of cloth and under the thin layer of grey dust they are actually pigeon blue. For the first three months or so Roger was wise enough to not remove anything from that room, probably knowing that Matt was still too unstable. But then he finally had it cleaned out, took bed sheets and clothing, books and lamps and the old CD player. Matt never told him that he is still too unstable.

 

And then all of Mello was gone . Just like that. It was easy to see, but so hard to believe _._ Matt still can’t believe it. Doesn’t want to believe it.

 

Sometimes, when he needs reassurance that Mello even existed at all, that it was not a hallucination, not some imaginery friend he made up because he was nuts long before all of this happened, sometimes Matt stands in front of the mirror and looks at his reflection. And then he knows that Mello does exist.

 

There are scars there, tiny scars, not those upon his soul, but those from before that day. There, that barely noticable dent on his forehead from when Mello jumped him with so much force that Matt bumped against the threshold. The small line across his lower lip, that turns white when Matt grimaces, a souvenir of one of their bigger fights, courtesy to Mello’s uppercut that split the skin. Or the gash along his forearm that has long since healed, a painful experience that taught an eight-years-old Mello to never jump around with scissors in your hands.

 

All those scars and sourvenirs are all that Mello left for him. Painful memories that make everything pale in comparison.

 

_By the way, you’ve been a great friend._

 

The words resound in Matt’s head as if he had heard Mello speak them.

 

 _By the way._ As if it were of no great importance.

 

“By the way,” Matt snorts, not knowing whether he wants Mello to hear it, “You destroyed my life.”

 

So maybe he is over-reacting. Roger said that and Linda said that and even Near fucking soon-to-be L had said that before he had left as well, only a while later. Maybe he is over-reacting. Maybe it is too late now.

 

 _By the way_ _, Mello,_ he thinks and presses his forehead against the cool wood of the door, _You left without saying goodbye to me._

 

The ignorant bastard probably hadn’t even noticed that. Had thought that leaving a note would be enough. As if.

 

 _And all I can think about is you and me,_ Matt muses silently.

 

You and me, as if it still holds any meaning. You and me. Mello and Matt.

 

It’s not like before. It’s only Matt now. Only ever Matt and the fucking silence of this fucking room.

 

He never knew that happy memories could be so damned painful. Everytime that pinching and piercing somewhere in his chest. He knows what’s causing it but he does not dare to name it. Names don’t mean anything. At Wammy’s House there are only aliases. Lies and fake identities.

 

Mello left nothing here. It was all erased and destroyed. His background, origin and childhood. His files and the record of his grades. There’s only a mere shadow of his existence, barely breathing in a few poeple’s remembrance, and even that will fade after some more while.

 

Already Mello has turned into a legend. A myth. A cruel and brutal fairytale. The new children who arrived during the past five years are told grand stories by the older kids, a bloody saga of battle and war, defeat and victory, truth and deception. A story about Mello and Near.

 

No one ever bothers to mention the story about Mello and Matt. No one dares to. No one is suicidal enough.

 

Matt wouldn’t hurt them if they did, maybe he wouldn’t even get angry. He wouldn’t, but the knowledge that they do fear him makes him wonder just what they see when they look at him. Is there insanity in his eyes? It there aggressive tension in his shoulders, a grimace of hate etched upon his face? Does he look dangerous? Does he look like Mello always wanted to look like, wicked and wanted and even somewhat evil?

 

It hurts him to see. To see anything and nothing at all. His own face and his own fantasies. The emptiness of the room. The bare walls. The window he must’ve once smashed in a fit of fury; he doesn’t quite remember it, but it’s been fixed a few days later, so he doesn’t care.

 

But it still hurts. That certainty that has crept into his head like the first insistent sunrays of the day; but not brightening and illuminating, but burning and scorching and making his skull sizzle on the inside.

 

The aching knowledge that it’s been a lie. That they’ve been a lie. Probably all along, probably from the very start, possibly only later on when they grew older. Definitely the moment Mello walked through that door to never return.

 

Would it have hurt to try? To try and be considerate for once. To not just turn his back on the many years of friendship and camaraderie, of brotherhood and maybe, maybe even something more, something sweeter and more gentle than what they ever tried to taste? Would it have hurt to try?

 

That’s just another of those questions Matt doesn’t know how to answer. And so he keeps silent about one of the few things he doesn’t want to scream out loud. It’s his secret and if things won’t change anytime soon he’ll be taking it to his grave. A grave that has already been dug.

 

Matt doesn’t know whether it would have hurt to try, but he knows what hurts now.

 

His entire being is screaming for relief, hoping for mercy and pity, his voice hoarse by now, those hoarse it’s barely a whisper at times, but he never stops. It just keeps screaming and screaming until his ears are ringing and he can’t see straight.

 

It’ so sad to say; to think about it at all is bad enough, but speaking it out loud hurts like a bitch. Matt would know; he has tried it once and never again. This pain is killing him inside and he can feel it, every moment of his life, with every breath he takes, every step he makes.

 

At the same time he needs it. It craves it as if he were a drug-addict, itching for his daily dose. It is a sick pleasure, but a pleasure nonetheless.

 

He doesn’t want to admit it, but it’stime to say that this pain is keeping him alive. He doesn’t like that thought, but he can’t deny it when it’s so horribly obvious.

 

Twisting and turning, it rips through his heart, making his head hurt and his guts lurch as if a snake were tightly clenching around it, a venemous snake of tempation and betrayal, of seduction and deception.

 

It’s been tearing him apart, just like he wants to tear apart that stupid note, but never dares to, because some part of him believes that if this note is destroyed, he will be destroyed as well. For this last brief message is the epitome of everything he treasures, everything he has lost, and getting rid of it would finally seal his fate, would doom him to a life in never-ending solitude, disappointment and hopelessness.

 

That’s pretty much what he has experienced for the past years. Solitude, disappointment and hopelessness. But now there’s a sliver of hope at the far-off horizon. A call for help on his cell phone display.

 

And Matt hates himself for being so weak, so loyal, so fucking dependant.

 

He already knows that he won’t be able to resist. That it will only take him roughly two to three hours until he will sit down, gather his wits and find a way how to contact Mello.

 

He already knows this, knew it the moment he read the words four hours ago, and yet he continues to sit there and stare at the small, square post-it note, the ultimate prove of his pitiful existence.

 

He wonders whether that text message will be just like that. If – when – he answers it, it will change it life, for better or worse. It will doom him, curse him without a doubt. It’s just a matter about how he’s going to face it, handle it, accept it.

 

If he were to confide in someone now, anyone who still cares for him in a way, maybe Roger, maybe Linda, maybe Leonato, maybe even that god damned asshole Near, they would all tell him that he’s crazy. Crazy for even considering it. Consider answering Mello’s text message, contanct him, get into a plane and fly to Japan.

 

Oh, Matt is quite aware of what’s going on. Of Kira and the Mafia and the involvement of the American president. He’s been keeping track of the case, of every single thing that might somehow be related to Mello. It only took him fifteen minutes to trace the signal of Mello’s cellphone back to Japan.

 

From that alone he can deduce that Mello is on the move now. Not simply testing the water and waiting for the right moment. Because that moment apparently has arrived. Something is changing. Dramatically. And Matt is not there to witness it.

 

But he could be. In his eyes the message is not just a cry for help, but an invitation.

 

Matt might be a Wammy genius as well, but even he can be replaced by someone who’s at least as efficient as himself. Not to mention that the last time Mello has seen him, Matt’s skills were limited to a dozen languages, handling weapons of small callibre and doing easy hacking jobs. Of course Mello is right to assume that Matt would prove to be a valuable asset. A tool even. But still there’s so much more.

 

There’s trust and faith and reliance, dependence on and belief in Matt. It feels wonderful. And it’s so much better than the constant pain that has long since driven him mad. He only has to figure out whether he is beyond repair. And Mello beyond redemption.

 

And maybe, if that problem is solved, he will find the answer to all those other questions as well.

 

 

 

 

 

The first time they see each other after nearly five years apart, Matt does the only thing that comes to his mind. He lets his lips curl into a resentful sneer and punches Mello right in the face, hoping to get rid of all the anger that has coiled up in the back of his heart over the time. But the violence does nothing to diminish his fury, especially as Mello only wipes the droplets of deep red blood from his split lip as if he were neither surprised nor hurt.

 

But of course, Mello knows greater pain, Matt can see it, can read it in that face that has agony and failure etched upon burned skin in the form of a tight-lipped, vicious scar, along with malice and spite and brimstone.

 

Matt has never seen that face before, does not recognize it, just like he doesn’t recognize the undisclosed look of contempt and haugthiness in those grey blue eyes, but he already hates it, because that is not Mello, never, or at least no more, because Mello ceased to exist the moment he wrote that blasted note and left the orphanage, and Matt wants _his_ Mello back, the real Mello, the playful kid that always taunted him with stupid jokes, but obviously there’s nothing left of that, only that cruel, blasé bastard that’s standing right in front of him like the saint of the sinners, and Matt is about to punch him again, but-

 

But Mello smiles. Mello smiles because suddenly he really is Mello again, and there is that sparkle that always twinkled in his eyes and Matt is so mesmerized he can’t look away.

 

Neither of them says anything but the easy grin on the blond’s lips is enough to speak all the words they missed during the past five years. And there’s gratitude in Mello’s silent expression, a sliver of desperation, a slice of regret and a whole lot of ‘Thanks God’.

 

And Matt can’t help but feel pride swell up in his chest, but he blows it out through his nostrils like he does with the smoke of his cigarettes, because surely he’s misreading that look that’s shyly peering into his eyes with admiration and affection and many, many _I missed you’_ s.

 

Himself is hesitant because he just decked his best friend and he is fucking stupid, because that was probably the worst emotional reunion in the history of emotional reunions, though Mello doesn’t seem to mind that one bit, because although he’s always been an unforgiving git, he knows that this time it’s about redeeming himself and not about ignoring Matt’s violent outburst.

 

“So you’ve finally learned to fight and stand up for yourself,” Mello says and his voice has changed as much as his face and his ideology have, but it’s the first thing he says to Matt in five fucking years and it’s a praise and Matt is swooning because he feels so giddy with bubbly emotions that seem to be overflowing, although he won’t admit that he’s on the verge of tears.

 

“Bloody bastard,” Matt mumbles an incoherent reply; expressing his emotions has never been his forte, but that eloquence is so surprising it startles Mello into a deep chuckle, and Matt tries to glare at him, but he’s never been too good at that either, so in the end he just settles for a timid smile and lets his gaze drop to his feet. Toes are certainly interesting and maybe, if he concentrates hard enough, he’ll be able to look right through the cheap material of his trainers, but no such luck.

 

Instead he suppresses a yelp as he is suddenly pulled forward with a little too much force, before he opens his eyes again and finds himself in a tight embrace. It lasts for about four seconds but apparantly that’s enough to make up for all the pain and betrayal and loneliness, and the moment it’s over and Mello pulls back they are best friends again, sworn brothers and partners in crime. That’s what they’ve always been; there’s no reason to change it now. What are five years if you have the world at your feet and the universe to conquer?

 

Matt knows that he’s much too generous and noble, but fucking hell, that’s what he’s been waiting for for ages, what kind of idiot would complain and make a scene now? Matt is no fool, though, Matt is a genius who wears his heart in the right place: at his sleeve.

 

And so, when Mello turns around and lifts a hand to casually beckon him to follow, Matt does not hesitate.

 

Fuck Kira and L and saving the world. Fuck notes by the door and empty rooms and sleeplessness. He is fourteen years old again, life is good and, _damn,_ he’s gonna enjoy it.

 

By the way, barely two months later Matt dies with a smile on his lips, just a week from his twentieth birthday. He does not regret it.

 


End file.
